


What I Want

by PseudonymMcWriter



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Finger Sucking, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not really but erring on the safe side, Penis In Vagina Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28969554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudonymMcWriter/pseuds/PseudonymMcWriter
Summary: You're staying overnight with Connor, and when you can't sleep, he has a logical suggestion.It's your classic hotel-room-with-one-bed scenario - what's not to love?
Relationships: Connor (Detroit: Become Human)/Reader
Comments: 18
Kudos: 234





	What I Want

**Author's Note:**

> Trying something different, would really appreciate any feedback!
> 
> I tagged this as mildly dubious consent just to be cautious, but if you're very sensitive to anything like that then maybe give this one a miss. I do have other Connor/Reader fics without it you can find here: [How To Heal You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29998368), [Touch-Starved](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250543), [Never Thought I'd Be Into This](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29092566), [Guess I'm Into This](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29761338), [Duet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29061894), [Deviant](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29738274), [Symbiosis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27803791), [Android Puberty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27703520/chapters/67801961), [Christmas Party](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27959723/chapters/68477054) and [Science Fiction/Double Feature](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28696857/chapters/70354788).

The city looks different from this angle. You consider saying it aloud, but then you remember the only person to hear is Connor and he takes things alarmingly literally. He’d probably try to explain, in a calm and privately concerned way, that things do in fact look different when you see them from different places. 

You’ve been outside of Detroit before, for work and play, but never in a hotel with such a great view of the waterfront. Secret CyberLife funding, perhaps, or maybe it’s because usually the DPD would have to pay for two officers and a double room. Since Hank’s coming over tomorrow and you’re only here with Connor, it doesn’t merit the extra cost. Whole thing worked out pretty well for you: nice room; great view, even in the dead of night; and a chance to spend some time with Connor.

You pull the curtains closed and turn around. He’s seated at the desk, scrolling through case notes on the tablet. Your chair is standing vacant, your notes abandoned - great room or not, the idea of sitting back down for a minute longer makes you want to lay down on the floor and die. As if he can read your mind, Connor looks over at you.

“I can continue this alone, if you need to get some rest.”

“I'll stay up a bit, it’s fine,” You pull your arms up into a stretch, getting ready for the inevitable back pain you’ll be suffering from tomorrow. That’s the thing about androids: they don’t have to worry about their posture, and they don’t get tired. Unrelatable.

“Please, I’m happy to do it,” Connor insists. “I can revise our notes internally so I don’t disturb you.”

“Fine.” You lay the back of your hand across your forehead, “If I must.”

Connor smiles, which you’re pleased to see. Maybe he feels a little more comfortable when it’s just the two of you, or maybe that’s your ego talking. When you pass him to use the bathroom, you reach out to squeeze his shoulder. It’s not an entirely thoughtless gesture, although that’s the way you hope it appears. You like the feel of his jacket and the hard line of his shoulder beneath, and you like the way he smiles about it to himself when he thinks you can’t see. Two smiles in a row - gotta be a record.

When you close the bathroom door and come face-to-face with yourself in the mirror, you realize you’re also smiling like an idiot. The expression drops immediately. It’s not healthy, what you’re doing: building up these moments like this. Connor’s an android, and the furthest thing from a deviant you could possibly get. Even his smiles are barely visible, and sometimes they look deeply unnatural, like something plastered on by a bad actor - a poor imitation of humanity.

But then... sometimes you can see it in his eyes. Warmth. Depth. Something more than what he’s letting on.

You swear under your breath and splash cold water in your face. Once you’ve freshened up and changed for bed, you come out to find Connor still at the desk - the tablet switched off and left on the table. His eyes are closed, his LED stuttering as he runs through reports in his head. There’s only one bed, obviously, although it’s a little bigger than the single cot you’d been expecting. You aren’t a deep sleeper at the best of times, but maybe tonight’s the night. Switching off the main light but leaving the desk light on for Connor - he definitely doesn’t need it, but it feels weird to just leave him in the dark - you slip between the covers and turn your back to the android.

The silence feels uncomfortable, so you turn over, adjust your pillow, clear your throat, then turn back again. You wonder if there’s an atmosphere, before reminding yourself that even if you think there is, it’s highly unlikely Connor can feel it. You sigh, your hand dropping a bit louder than you’d intended onto the duvet. Okay, maybe you’re not going to get a lot of sleep.

Your mind’s too busy, stuffed full with facts and figures for your case tomorrow, but also spiralling distractedly whenever you think of the android sitting across the room. His eyes are closed, his mind is occupied, but you can’t help but feel like at least part of him is tuned into you. 

"You're not sleeping,” Connor’s matter-of-fact voice drifts across the room. You can't help but smile - you were right. 

"It's difficult when you're being scanned."

There’s a beat, and then he whispers: "Sorry."

“It’s fine. It’s not your fault,” You roll to lie on your back, head turning to face him. He’s sitting bolt upright in the chair, his flickering LED slowing to a steady roll. He’s watching you, head slightly tilted, expression unreadable. "Usually I have to listen to something to sleep."

"You can turn on the radio, it won't distract me from my analysis."

"Hm." You consider it, but the idea of inviting other voices into the room seems wrong, somehow. The more you think about it the more you realize there's only really one voice you want to hear. "Why don't you think aloud? That'll send me right off."

Even with the little drip of humour at the end, Connor assumes you're actually asking. He unfolds from the chair, straightens, adjusts his tie, then paces closer. He begins with the basics, the things you could also repeat from heart if you really wanted to, but you’re not really listening. Instead you’re watching the change in him as he starts to grow more animated. He talks with his hands when he has to think things through, or when he grows... not excited, not impassioned but... what’s the non-deviant terminology for seeming like you’re having an emotional response when you’re not technically programmed to do so?

Whatever it is, you like it, but there is something you'd like more.

"Come lay here," You say it boldly, almost impatiently, as if it's the most sensible option - as if you can convince yourself that it is. "I can't sleep when you're doing laps."

Connor hesitates and for a moment you're fully expecting him to say no. For that, you're glad you asked in the way you did and not more sincerely. You’re all ready to roll your eyes and turn away from him, wave your hand like it didn’t matter, when he takes you by surprise. He sits delicately on the side of the bed, then bends to unbuckle his shoes. In one smooth movement, he props the pillow up against the headboard then draws his legs up and lays beside you, head raised and looking down at you. You turn onto your side, facing him, feeling warm and safe under the covers with him laying on top of them.

Connor looks down at you. His social programming makes you easy enough to read, and the fact that you're comfortable, no... happy, being this vulnerable with him is a very good sign. He considers storing this experience away, some evidence of his integration CyberLife can learn from, but he decides against it. He doesn't really know why... But it seems wrong. It feels like something you wouldn't want to share.

A sensation at the end of the bed snaps him out of his thoughts. Your bare foot has slipped out of the covers to prod his right foot.

"Cute socks," You say. Even though they're not cute, just plain black, you're clearly finding the novelty of seeing them for the first time funny.

"Thank you." He doesn’t know how else to respond, and he doesn't know why, but that single touch shocked him. He hopes you didn't see the way his LED briefly flickered amber, and if you did, he hopes you thought it was because he was simply surprised by the contact and not... otherwise affected by it.

You're smiling up at him, chin slightly tucked beneath the covers. He likes you like that, he realizes. You're looking at him like you really see him, like there's no one else you'd want to be here with than him. It makes him feel good. 

Feel.

Not feel. No.

It's social programming. He’s simply reacting to a positive relationship. It's just... Machine learning. Connor nods to himself. 

You quirk a brow, clearly wondering what’s going through his head. "Do you want to tell me about the case?"

Connor begins at once. He isn't talking for long when he realizes you're not looking at him anymore. Your eyes have closed, but there's a small, contented smile on your face. He can feel his own lips curve, just the edges, just a little. You're still awake, humming or making a drowsy comment every now and then, but it shouldn't take long for you to drop off. He's glad it's working. Emotions aren't a part of his programme, no, but he has learned that it’s acceptable to react to certain stimuli. Namely, a job succeeded should feel good, whilst a job failed should feel bad. These are necessary for his efficacy. These are allowed.

This feels like a success.

Or, it does, until you suddenly stir. He can’t understand why: you were on the cusp of sleep, your heart rate had slowed, your breathing deepened, but it was almost like you were fighting not to fall asleep.

"This isn't working," You mumble, rolling onto your back. 

"I'm sorry,” He says, and he is. He doesn’t know what he did wrong. It bothers him. “Do you want me to get up?"

"No," You say quickly, looking at him. You realize he's shifted downwards a little, he looks more comfortable, more relaxed. There's something you want to ask him but you can't. He'll be able to see it, the unasked question like a physical thing on the tip of your tongue, but you pray he doesn't. Acting to sabotage you, your body warms, a blush creeping up your cheeks. You consider turning away but you’re worried it would upset him. Besides, it's too late.

Connor can see it. He's seen it before, the way your body responds to him, but never in circumstances where he might be able to act on it. 

But should he? The question comes to the forefront of his mind, carried by some piece of code meant to weigh up risks.

He chooses to ignore it.

"There is something I can do that might help," Connor begins in a neutral tone, as if he's suggesting the most normal thing in the world. "RK units are capable of satisfying sexual urges. It seems likely that the reason you can't sleep is due in part to frustration, and alleviating that should help your mental and physical health. It should help you to sleep."

He doesn't look at you, it's like he can't. What he'd suggested is all perfectly logical, and yet he can't ignore the fact that there's a part of him that has a stake in this - it's for your benefit, not his, but he wants you to accept. It isn’t tied to feelings - it couldn’t be, because he’s not a deviant. He just knows it’s something you want, and if he can give you what you want, you’ll be pleased with him. He can feel like he’s succeeded.

"Did you really just ask me that?" You manage to say after a period of stunned silence. You haven't sat up or moved at all, and although your heart rate has accelerated, it's in conjunction with other bodily reactions that suggest you're excited by his proposal. "I thought you had the most advanced social programming in the world?"

"Correct." Connor replies. "I concluded you would be receptive."

He finally looks at you. You're staring at him, mouth slightly ajar, eyes still a little heavy with tiredness - and now, something else. 

"Alright," You mean to say it nonchalantly, but it comes out wrong. You can't keep your breathing under control, your heart is pounding, and beneath the sheets your body is suddenly waking up, preparing itself for this unexpected contact.

At the first sign of consent, Connor reaches out and touches your face, slowly. He hasn't touched you like this, not properly. He had touched human skin before now, obviously, although there was an unhealthy dead:alive ratio as far as that was concerned. Even so, of all of the living skin he had touched, yours felt somehow different.

He can feel each pore, each freckle, the unique landscape of your bone structure. There’s a smoothness to it, but not like android skin. You’re blemished all over with human imperfections, and Connor can't think of anything more exciting. He’s made to investigate, he’s built to be curious, so when the thought flickers across his mind - in a scrap of errant code - that he’s made for this, he does not dismiss it. His thumb brushes across your lips, hesitating for a moment against the plush weight of them, the soft pliancy, the heat of your breath damp and tantalising against the sensitive pad of his digit. Then he moves on, across the soft fibres of your eyelashes and eyebrows, the sweep of hair pushed back from your forehead, the curve of your ear; making you comfortable with his touch, yes, but also mapping out the individual components of your face, storing every detail to memory. He does it calmly, without arousing your suspicion, but he’s aware of something within him - some rogue instruction that peppers him with anxiety, urges him to collect everything, hurries him to take all he can because this could be his only chance.

It’s part of his programming. Part of being a detective, an investigator, part of the base directive to collect data quickly and completely. It makes sense.

He slips his hand down, fingers spreading across your throat, catching the hurried thrum of your pulse before reaching the delicate curve of your collarbones and the flat bone of the top of your ribcage and sternum, then his fingers meet the material of your shirt.

When Connor's hand slips beneath the duvet, beyond your sight, all you have to rely on is what you can feel and what you can see on his face. When you first met Connor you'd thought there was a stillness to his face, but you were wrong. His face changes constantly; his eyes narrowing and widening as he reads your expression, his eyebrows at once furrowed and then arched - transforming his face from suspicious and searching to soft and open. 

You've been thinking about what his touch would feel like for longer than you'd like to admit. His skin’s unbelievably soft, his movements measured and gentle; you can feel the solid frame beneath, but not as much as you'd expected. There was some give to his skin, some soft barrier separating you from the hard plastic beneath. Android skin has always mystified you, from what little you've heard it’s like a type of adaptive, synthetic fluid capable of covering the entire body and moulding skin and hair, seemingly out of nothing. Whatever it is, you want to feel more of it. 

As Connor's hand smoothes over the fabric of your shirt, his touch painfully gentle, his fingertips dragging ticklishly across the hardening buds of your nipples, you draw your hand out of the covers to cup his face. You’re surprised to find that his face isn't perfectly smooth. The shadow around his jaw, that you'd expected to be purely aesthetic, is actually a little rough - it really felt like he'd just shaved. The hair of his eyebrows, currently arching upwards, is also realistic, as are his long eyelashes and the synthetic fibres around his hairline, which are thinner around the sides and thicker coming up to the crown. Connor smiles, just a little, as you card your fingers through his hair. His hand rests against your tummy, fingertips tracing circles against the exposed skin between your shirt and the top of your pants. Your legs are crossed and you can't quite bring yourself to uncross them, although whether that's through nerves or a desire to make this last, you aren't sure - probably a bit of both.

The skin on your stomach is softer than the skin on your face, Connor realizes. He wonders if that’s true elsewhere. He had felt the way your body was responding to him, the way your breasts had... had... 

Connor notices it again, that dangerous code whispering to him. Your hand touching his face, tangling in his hair, isn't helping matters. He’s becoming distracted. That isn’t supposed to happen.

Gingerly, he slips his hand beneath your shirt, watching your face for your reaction. Your pupils are dilated, your back arching just a little, your breath coming hard and fast from your parted lips. You want this. He edges his hand further beneath your shirt, feeling each individual rib rise and fall as he counts his way upwards, until he finds the soft flesh of your breast, perfectly shaped to fit into his hand. 

A human hand, that is. 

He mustn't forget that. He mustn't forget what he is. What you are.

It would be easy to forget, with the way you're looking at him, the way his own programming is becoming warped, twisted and reset to serve the situation.

Surely his programming is meant for this, then. If it isn't, he wouldn't be able to do it. It’s as simple as that. And if CyberLife hadn't intended it... then... then perhaps they shouldn't have underestimated him. Perhaps he’s more advanced than even they realize.

He sweeps his thumb gently back and forth across your nipple, and is rewarded by your soft gasp, an inadvertent sound drawn from between parted lips. Your fingers tighten a little in his hair, your eyes closing. Your muscles are still tense, as if your body is warring with itself. You do want this, but you're holding something back - why? 

When you open your eyes and see him still staring down at you, the flush that creeps across your cheeks gives him his answer. You're embarrassed, at least a little. He doesn't know if it's his stare that’s done it, or maybe the situation - the transgressive nature of it - or simply a natural reaction you have to sexual contact. Whatever it is, he has the sudden urge to overcome it. That little gasp isn't enough. He wants to hear more.

Connor brings his other hand up and your eyes are drawn to his fingers as he loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt. It's not necessary for him to do so and neither of you can explain why, but you both like it. The hand under your shirt suddenly abandons your breasts and slips downwards. The waistband of your pants is loose enough that he can slide his hand right beneath it, and sooner than he expects he finds the heat of your sex.

"Connor..." You breathe as his fingertips find your clit and begin to enact the same light ministrations as he did on your nipple. His LED cycles amber at the sound of his name, at the way you say it. You shudder, somehow still not accustomed to what's happening - everything feels sudden and unexpected. But you like it. The tension in your legs dissipates, your hips shifting and legs unwinding very slowly, responding to his touch. Your hand leaves his hair and grabs clumsily at the front of his clothes, settling on his tie. It's silky in your grip, and you barely think to care about the knot tightening, or the tug of the material against Connor's neck. There's no doubt you wouldn't be able to disturb him even if you tried. 

The bundle of nerves feels soft and wet against Connor's fingers. Under the covers, where neither of you can see, he retracts the skin on his hand, allowing himself to feel it properly. It seems such a deliberate thing. He knows there is some biological explanation, that you are the consequence of generations of random mutations leading to what could be mistaken for purposeful design. But he also knows that some people believe in a creator, and for the first time he finds himself wondering if there's any truth to that. Somebody created him and his design was specifically chosen to make him appealing. Perhaps you’re the same. Perhaps some other creator made you, although he can’t bring himself to wonder about your purpose, even if that malignant bit of code has some foul suggestions.

He realizes your breathing has grown more erratic, your muscles tensing and relaxing, the grip on his tie tight and desperate. He had grown distracted again, he hadn't realized he'd been setting a furious, purposeful pace. He slows at once, because although he’s enjoying the way you're panting and writhing under his touch, he doesn't want to miss a moment of it.

When you realize he's slowing down, you throw him an irritable look. Or at least, that's how it's meant to look, but Connor can see the plea in your eyes. It’s easy enough to pre-construct a scenario where you might voice that plea, where you might beg. 

Obscenely, he feels something twitch in his pants.

His pace had been frantic, determined, perfectly placed, and you’d felt yourself getting close faster than you ever had before - even by yourself. So his sudden change in pace almost makes you lose your mind. One hand dives down to grip his wrist, urging him not to relent, whilst the other fumbles mindlessly against his belt. You realize too late what you're doing, and although your hand retracts at once when you do, it's not before you've managed to pull his belt loose and unzip his fly. The offending hand comes back up to his tie. 

"Sorry, I... fuck... Connor... Please..." You babble as his fingers return to a consistent pace. It's enough, but only just. You moan quietly, impatiently, feeling somehow both over- and under-stimulated. You want him to hold you, to kiss you, to get on top of you and fuck you into the mattress, but he's still lying at your side, casually propped aloft on his elbow, doing all of this with just one hand with his face too far from yours to reach. You turn your hips slightly, angling your back towards him, the leg closest to him bending at the knee and sliding back until it's laying over his.

Connor doesn't neglect to notice your body edging closer to his, the heat radiating from your back against him, the burning core desperately close to the part of him you'd managed to expose in your clumsy efforts to unbutton his jeans. Your hand on his wrist is damp with sweat, your grip weak but insistent. The other is back at his tie, but although he’d liked the way you pulled at first, he realizes he would have preferred you hadn’t abandoned your thoughtless, desperate attempt to unclothe him. That had felt real, instinctive, not dulled and diluted by embarrassment and social graces. 

Why Connor has a preference at all, he doesn’t have the language to explain. He tries to think of it in terms he understands: sensors reacting to stimuli. Something in his programme reacts positively to the grip you have on his wrist, perhaps because it’s a sign you want him to continue, and maybe he likes how weak you feel against him because it’s a reminder that he’s built to be strong. And maybe he’s frustrated that your hand is on his tie and not between his legs because that had felt like a natural, instinctive decision on your part - it had normalized your intimacy with him. It had been you treating him like an equal, a sexual partner and not an object. A human.

That would be better for you, and... and was it so unthinkable that he should want it to be better for him, too? Was it not part of his programme to seek out positive reinforcement, and does it not follow that he should find positive reinforcement, in some way, pleasurable?

In his frustration, he forgets his earlier desire to draw this out and instead chooses to push you back to that point where you turned desperate and mindless. His fingers slip downwards, drawn in by the hot wet of your entrance, a hidden part of you that - whether created through design or chance - had never been a place for androids. This shouldn't be, and so Connor takes pleasure in making it so. His finger pushes into the soft folds, and is accepted like it’s human, not just accepted but drawn in, lured with heat and damp and the clenching of your muscles. You groan, head tipping back and teeth worrying your lip, as Connor presses deeper, not pursuing your pleasure but something else. Curiosity, transgression. When he crooks his finger inside you, challenging the tightness of your walls, your mouth opens in a gasp, and Connor takes his chance. His other hand moves behind your head, circling you in a partial embrace as he slips his fingers into your mouth. 

Your lips close around his knuckles, a startled moan at the intrusion melting into a satisfied hum as your tongue flattens against the soft pads of his fingers. The moment he does it, Connor stops trying to understand what motivates him. There is no procedure, no predesignated set of rules, nothing in his programme - he knows that. Whatever is motivating him, it isn't something he can explain. It isn't part of his core function. It defies reason.

He just likes it. He likes the sight of you sprawled out, needy, submissive to his touch. He likes the way your body turns hot and slick, the way you writhe when he touches you in the right places, the way you look at him with unabashed lust. It feels like something he isn't allowed to experience.

But he is, and he likes it, and he wants more.

In your efforts to get closer to him, the covers have been thrown aside. Connor pulls his hand out of your pants to push them down your thighs, careful to reactivate his skin just in case you don't like the sight of his stark white fingers delving between your legs. Not that you were paying attention, your head’s tilted back against his arm, eyes either squeezed shut or locked on his, mouth occupied. Lost in pleasure, embarrassment dissolving more and more by the second.

With his fingers invading you so intimately, you're beginning to get what you've been silently begging for for a long time. You feel overwhelmed, overcome, obscenely full. His fingers between your legs are drawing you closer to the edge by the moment. But the ones in your mouth... Maybe it's the unexpectedness of it, the lack of necessity. You don't know why Connor did it, and in some way that makes it really fucking hot.

The warmth of your body wrapped around his fingers is infecting him. It feels good, the feeling of flesh and blood, the damp, the fluttering of your muscles. You seem satisfied with what he’s doing to you, but he had never considered that he might not be. When he’d suggested that RK units are capable of engaging in sexual acts, this wasn't all he had meant, and he thought you had realized that when you’d reached for his belt.

Connor shifts his hips.

This is different. What he’s been doing up until now were the actions of a tool, giving pleasure without really involving himself. This... This is animal. A world he doesn't belong to. A world in which he has no place. And yet, you're pulling at his tie, urging him on, your toes hooked behind his calf, legs spread, pulling your body closer to his.

His cock is free, drawn to the heat between your legs almost of its own accord. Your hips shudder as his fingers draw back up, his fingertips tracing careful circles against your sensitive clit, the heel of his palm pressing into your front, holding you in place.

You feel something prod at your entrance. Your spine stiffens, but you don't pull away. You look up at him, eyes dark and wet with pleasure.

When his tip breaches your entrance, Connor's body jerks as if he's been shocked. He clamps his teeth together, trying to hide the sound of pleasure that starts as a staticky groan in his voice box. The tightness, the heat, feels raw against him, much better than it had felt against his fingers. CyberLife created genitals with enough sensors and software for androids to realistically simulate sexual pleasure and orgasm, but this is different. This doesn't feel like an emulation. This feels carnal. Connor rises up on his elbow, looking down, watching and feeling the intrusion: his synthetic cock burying itself inside you; an imposter being welcomed inside; a machine committing a purely biological act. It feels wrong, unnatural. It feels good. It feels so good it scares him a little.

Your teeth close around his fingers and you groan as he pushes further inside. He’s slow, careful to move only so far as your body allows. There’s no pain, despite the size of him; he’s gentle, and you’re very, very wet. The slick sound of him pushing deeper is barely audible but it adds to the obscene image. You feel reduced to your most feral instincts, just an animal, incapable of thinking, caring about nothing but him.

And Connor? He initiated this, he’s the one in control. You already feel fucked out of your mind, you don’t have the grey matter spare to think too hard about what this means for him.

"Ah..." He breathes, as he slips all the way in. His hand leaves your mouth, coming around to replace the hand at your clit so he can reach up to grip your bicep, tugging you backwards so your back is almost flush against his chest. Slowly, so as not to hurt you, his hips tilt, withdrawing, angling to seek out every possible spot inside you that might make this feel better. Your walls clench and cling to him as he pulls partly out and then pushes back in. He rocks against you like this for a short while, starting slow, getting both of you used to the feeling.

You're breathing loudly, whispering nonsense. His eyes are fixed on your union, absorbed in the sight as he begins to quicken his pace. The sounds he makes are sinful, a mix of static and groans like he can barely contain himself.

As he moves faster, deeper, your head falls to the pillow, and your hand leaves his tie to hold your breasts as your body rocks and shivers with each thrust, but Connor is quick to notice, the hand leaving your arm to bunch your shirt up, exposing your breasts. He reaches to grip them, not rough but not as featherlight as he'd been earlier.

"Connor... I... ah...f..fuck...kiss me..." You're barely audible against the creaking of the bed and the sounds he's making, but he hears you. His mouth latches to your neck, trailing sloppy kisses up to your jaw. You reach up to grip his hair, his neck, whatever you can get a hold of. He wastes no time, shoving his tongue into your mouth, the sensation earning a shocked gasp which he gladly swallows. His tongue isn't remotely human. It's rough, lined with millions of sensors, and flexible. It softens against your tongue, then hardens to explore the interior of your mouth, then switches back again. For you, it feels good, but for him...

The moment his tongue entered your mouth, the intensity of the sensations he'd already been overwhelmed with threatened to shut him down completely. Your data pulses through his mind, your vitals, your pleasure, everything. Connected to you like this, Connor feels everything. His cock inside you throbs, desperate for friction, and he begins to move faster still, swallowing the whimpers and moans he’s forcing out of your mouth. His fingers never stop moving against your clit. You’re so close and he... and he is...

You shriek against his mouth, the sound muffled, suffocated into a pathetic sob. Your body shakes as your orgasm rushes through you, white-hot and blinding, going on and on until you're twitching and limbless, completely at his mercy as he holds you tight and reaches his own hurried end. He groans into your mouth, the vibrations travelling from his chassis all the way down your throat. It shouldn't have been coherent, but you’re certain you heard him say your name as he climaxed.

For a while, neither of you say or do anything. You're tangled up in each other, pressed so closely together you're certain your skin will tear clean off if he tries to leave you. His cock is still inside you, and when he does finally pull out you feel cold and empty. Connor moves backwards, away from you; nothing tears, thank god, but the cool air hitting the sensitive skin of your back feels almost painful. He sits up and adjusts his clothes, and you do the same, pulling your shirt down and your pants up, feeling both satisfied and still somehow wanting.

You sit up and reach for his back. He tilts his head, and you notice his LED change quickly from red to amber.

"Connor, you okay?" Your voice is gentle, thick with compassion and still a little shaky.

He nods. You slide your fingers into his hair and watch the shudder that runs up his back. He turns to look at you properly. You smile.

"Get some sleep," His voice is low, but he smiles back. He goes to stand but you take his hand, stopping him.

"Stay with me?" You suggest. You notice his LED turn from amber to a nice, calm blue as he acquiesces wordlessly, sliding back into bed, this time under the sheets where you can hold him. You don’t mind that he’s clothed, you like the feel of his jacket against your cheek.

"Are you okay?" You whisper again when you're settled, your hand resting lightly on his chest, knee bent and propped against his leg.

"Yes," Connor replies, and as if to punctuate it, he presses a long, firm kiss against the top of your head. "How is your frustration?"

"Satisfied.”

"And your tiredness?"

"Bumped up to a hundred." You smile into his jacket. 

"Good." He mumbles, and you feel his arms circle you, his mouth and nose settling against your hair. 

Yeah. You can sleep like this.


End file.
